


Cardinal sins, deadly virtues

by Kangoo



Series: Miscellaneous Warcraft Stuff [13]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Peace Summits AU, this is technically a wip but the one chapter works well enough on its own
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 07:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20774972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: Kael’thas likes to think he’s a patient man (he is not)





	Cardinal sins, deadly virtues

**Author's Note:**

> i found this in my wip folder and decided to post it right now rather than waiting for the eventual day when i finish its companion piece
> 
> kael'thas: aren't you tired of being nice? don't you just wanna go apeshit?

_Patience is the mother of all vices._

Kael’thas likes to think he’s a patient man. No one has ever accused him of being cool-headed before — fire mages have a reputation to uphold — and he doesn’t necessarily put thoughts into everything he does or says, but he was raised for diplomacy and leadership, and _leniency_ is par for the course. He was a professor at the Kirin Tor for a while, too, and you don’t make it to such a career without learning some tolerance for mages’ shenanigans, which prepare you for _anything_.

And maybe Rommath would rather call him ‘long-suffering’ than patient, but is there such a difference, really? As long as it keeps him from pyroblasting impudent noblemen for wasting his time, he thinks it’s fair game to call it _patience_.

But there’s a time in those endless, mostly-pointless hours of talking in circles — a _moment_, you see, a _point_, where it gets a little old to hear another of Sylvanas’ diatribes against the Alliance. He gets a little tired, a little _done_ _with her shit._

And most people are unaware of what a tired Kael’thas is like, because it’s rare for him to agree to be in the presence of anyone alive while tired. The royal guards has been called countless times during his studies after his professors or fellow students at the Kirin Tor believed him to have been abducted, while he had in fact holed up in the darkest, most isolated corner of the place, hissing at whoever dares to approach, gripping his thirtieth cup of tar-black coffee in a white knuckled grip.

(Metaphorically, of course. He has standards. But he does tend to isolate himself… Or force people to isolate him by being an ill-tempered, insufferable, easily irritated prick until he finally passes out from sheer exhaustion.)

Point is, a tired Kael’thas is not a pleasant experience for anyone concerned. But it’s usually because he gets irritable, and it is a dangerous trait to find in an already volatile mage whose sleeping habit have only worsened his temper. It’s not a problem unless you actively seek him out, which is a hard task in and on itself for reasons previously mentioned.

It’s not the worst experience one can have with Kael’thas, or rather as an innocent and unfortunate bystander to him.

As a sidenote, it is often said that, whereas most people eventually reach a point where they learn a modicum of self-preservation, mages usually bypass that stage of their life. It takes a special kind of suicidal tendencies to learn magic, after all. But it’s not quite true. Indeed, there is no one in the Kirin Tor who hasn’t met Kael’thas’ ringed eyes from across the room, seen the deep, burning rage in them, and subsequently found in themselves the capacity to love and cherish life enough to develop a survival instinct and vacate the premise as fast as possible while wearing robes.

That is because, of the people who have lingered in the presence of a Kael’thas who was both sleep-deprived and deeply irritated, few have survived to tell the tale and then agreed to remain at a distance under a few dozen miles from him. What happened to them is not discussed; it is not mentioned; it is not _thought of_. Everyone knows enough to fear it. More importantly, everyone knows _better_ than to stay around the prince when he is on the warpath.

Because a tired Kael’thas might seek the silence and darkness of isolation, but that is nothing more than a byproduct of too many pre-finals weeks-long cramming sessions where the slightest sound in the library is answered by the unhinged hissing of terrified, stressed out mages. A pissed-off Kael’thas, on the other hand, _seeks out_ confrontation, actively searches for social interaction, usually with one (and only _one_) goal in mind.

Murder. Or, this failing, severe bodily arm; any kind of maiming, really, be it physical or psychological.

(And maybe this has been blown out of proportions by years’ worth of new students learning in hushed whisper of the hair-trigger temper of their professor, but even Rommath avoids him in that state and that should tell you all you need to know about it, really.)

Here is a recipe for a disaster:

Kael’thas likes to think he is a patient man. In reality, he is everything but.

There is nothing in this world or whichever other one they are portal-traveling to lately that calls for more patience than peace summits and the stubborn, dim-witted, narrow-minded leaders that they gather. The same debates and arguments go in endless circles, no progress is ever made, and there is no surer way to rile him up faster than pointless, boring discussions.

And, apart from the mages and blood elves in the vicinity, no one else is aware of the danger of _riling Kael’thas up_.

(In all honesty it’s not their fault they didn’t think to bring it up. To them it is obvious, a fact learned early out of necessity: for all his genius and _leniency_, it is neither hard nor safe to irritate Kael’thas. Who in their right mind wouldn’t be aware of that?)

(Well to be fair one of them has willingly withheld this information: Rommath, who has bet on Kael’thas being the first to actually, _physically_ snap and plans to makes himself very rich. It’s about time the Alliance realizes why they have nicknamed their king _the phoenix_.)

Now, it’s only a matter of who will make him snap.

In hindsight it’s obvious that it would be Genn who would do them the honor.

After a particularly difficult bout of negotiations which ended up leading nowhere but took hours out of everyone’s time, you would be hard pressed to find anyone present who wasn’t on edge. Lor’themar, who has reluctantly agreed to sit at his king’s side for those summits to offer him his more level-headed output, is honestly too tired to be _angry_ at the waste of time. But a glance at the faces of those surrounding him tells him his case is more of an exception than a rule. Kael’thas’ expression is especially drawn, taunt in a way that speaks of grinding teeth and jaws locked around a snarl. His lips are twisted in the tense approximation of a smile, and when he absentmindedly licks his teeth it’s more a discrete display of barely-restrained aggressiveness than the thoughtful reflex it usually is.

Lor’themar glances around a second time and, deciding they are no longer needed — at this point they are only stuck here because of the small talk that ends each meeting, and it’s not out of character for Kael’thas to cut those short — he ushers his king out of the room, taking care not to touch him.

“I’ll be on the training grounds,” he tells Lor’themar, voice devoid of emotion in what is a frankly impressive show of restraint.

“Do you want me to send for Rommath?”

A pause as Kael’thas, agitated, curls his hands into fists and then forcefully relaxes them. “… No.”

“Very well, my lord.”

He watches his king stride off and can’t help a relieved sigh. That’s one crisis averted. He’s impressed Kael’thas managed to hold it together for so long. He really is growing into his role of king, becoming more and more like his father each day.

He winces as, down the corridor, a large door is wrenched open and, shortly after, slammed shut with so much force it makes the walls shake.

There’s still a long way to go.

-

If there is one advantage to the peace summits taking place in Silvermoon — the closest thing Azeroth has to a neutral city, the blood elves having enough history with both factions to agree to have every racial leader in their capital city and enough space to house the Forsaken delegation far away from everyone else — it is that, if the training grounds of the palace weren’t empty before, they definitely are by the time Kael’thas settles in the center of one with his sword in hand.

Blood elves have already learned this lesson the hard way and it doesn’t take much for the foreigners present to imitate them when they run away at the sight of their king.

Kael’thas unceremoniously drops his parade armor to the side, keeping nothing on but his pants and boots. Felo’melorn hums in his hand as he lifts it above his head, shifting into the position of his first _fallah ishnu _— _battle dance_, the choreographed training exercises that are at the basis of most sin’dorei martial arts.

He works through the familiar steps as slowly as he can, focusing on the burn in his muscles from the strain of the tightly controlled movements rather than the anger that burns equally hot in his guts. It’s a welcome distraction, the frustration fueling his exercise until every gesture is as fluid and as precise as those of a prowling predator.

Sweat covers his bare skin, rolling down his face as he breathes in slowly, holds it in, and then release the air in synchronization with the downward curve of his blade.

It freezes in place with the rest of his body at the sound of the voice.

"In the mood for a friendly spar, _lord _Kael'thas?"

The particular emphasis on the one word only means something if he cares to attribute a meaning to it. Unfortunately, Kael'thas is pissed, and all too happy to have it mean something unpleasant that will fuel his anger.

"Of course, lord Greymane," he replies, saccharine-sweet. "Do you need a moment to get ready?"

The human lets his coat and shirt drops, takes his own sword and rolls his shoulders, grinning ruefully. It's as much of an answer as Kael'thas needs.

Genn might have expected him to play on the defensive, but Kael'thas' character does not belong among the few things the mutt knows. Kael'thas throws himself at him sword first, embers trailing in his wake as he brings down Felo'melorn in a wide arc. Genn blocks it but his eyes widen in slight surprise before narrowing, feral glee briefly glinting in his golden irises.

It is soon to disappear, however. Kael'thas doesn't allow him a second of respite, not the slightest opening to counter-attack, not a single breath to gather his wit. He attacks relentlessly, alternating between quick, precise strikes and brute strength to drive him back. Genn's foot slides on the dusty ground and Kael'thas dives forward, swiping his feet from under him; Genn falls in a side roll as he hits the ground, narrowly avoiding a blow that might have landed right next to his neck or right through it, depending on how merciful Kael’thas is feeling towards his diplomats today.

Kael'thas might appear similar to any of the young mages sent by the Kirin Tor, but he is older than Genn by decades and all this time has given him the opportunity to master swordsmanship in a way human can only manage in a lifetime. By his people's standards he is already good; if he were human, he'd be a prodigy. Moreover, elves are predators by nature, their trollish ancestry still visible in the sharpness of their teeth and the uncanny strength of their lithe forms. Human stereotypes of frail spellcasters don't apply to them, who have built their culture on magic and death.

(There is a reason so many sin'dorei dances involve swords.)

But Genn might be dumber than he wants you to believe, he still has a beast's instinct, and in that second of near-death it overtakes him, and by the time he stands to his feet again he has shifted into his wolf form, white fur bristling as he growls.

The fight is more even after that, the worgen's inhuman strength allowing him to go toe-to-toe with Kael'thas' own. They trade blows back and forth, sparks flying when their swords collide. Kael'thas finds himself smiling, although it is less for pleasure of the fight and more at the pleasant thought of Genn's face when he’ll _win_.

And then the wolf decides to fight dirty, and throws a fistful of sand in his face.

It's not enough to blind him, barely enough to distract him, but it gives Genn a bare second of opening which he takes full advantage of. Kael'thas dodges a swipe of his claws nimbly and misses the other hand, which lets go of the sword to catch him by the shoulder and throw him backward. Genn's foot trips him, and he goes down before he realizes it.

Dust flies when his back hits the ground, knocking the wind out of him. The full weight of the wolfed-out worgen dropping on his stomach doesn't help, nor does the claws curling around his throat, digging threateningly against the soft flesh of his neck.

"Do you yield?" Genn growls, voice distorted by a too-long muzzle and too-sharp fangs.

He should — the other king won fair and square, after all. And, were it any other time, he _would_: Kael'thas might be proud, but he doesn't hold victory in such trivial matters so high that he would refuse a fair defeat.

But this is not _any other time_. Kael'thas is angry, and tired, frustrated deep to his bones, blood burning with fury that has been building up for weeks now.

Everybody should know it is not a good idea to approach him when he is _angry_.

His eyes flash bright gold for a brief second, barely the span of a blink. He snarls, feral like a cornered animal, and he digs his nails in Genn's side.

"_Never_," he grits out before fire engulfs them.

The spell — more of an explosion than a true fireball, really — throws the worgen king far from him, rolling in the dirt with the impact. He is singed, not badly wounded but hurt enough that he stays sprawled there a moment.

"You never said I could not use magic," Kael'thas says breezily, walking to his abandoned clothes as if nothing had happened. "But I thought I would go easy on you."

With that he puts his shirt back on, throws the rest over his arm and walks off. With some chance, this would prove to be a teaching moment to the man, and their little talks will maybe get somewhere next time.

(Off to the side, Rommath leans toward Khadgar and says, "You owe me fifty gold."

On Khadgar’s other side Illidan stands silent, staring at Kael'thas' retreating back with a strange expression on his face. There is a hint of dark purple on his cheeks, a blush that would go unnoticed by anyone else, and Rommath grins.

Kael'thas is far from being a patient man, but Illidan doesn't seem to mind.)


End file.
